


You'll Be The Death of Me

by Aranwion



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, But that's sort of the point, Character Death, M/M, because they're ghosts, no violent deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 11:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20435546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aranwion/pseuds/Aranwion
Summary: Aziraphale has been dead for so many years, he's rather gotten used to it. His manor has seen it's fair share of life since his passing, but as long as he has his home and his library he's happy to let it all go on around him.  That is, until an artist named Crowley comes seeking refuge and something resembling peace. And oh yes, he seems to be able to sense Aziraphale's presence.





	You'll Be The Death of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Based on that one tumblr. post that went by on my dash, where Aziraphale and Crowley are both haunting the same house and have some fun with ghost hunter types. Haven't been able to find it again, all props to the OP for the idea!
> 
> Probably not my best work, but the idea took hold and I just felt the need to get it out there!

Aziraphale had a rather tenuous relationship with time - he rarely considered it at all, though when he did he rather thought he’d been here alone for quite a bit of it. Well, not really alone, but always on the outside, looking in. Being dead had that effect. He enjoyed it though, watching the families who came to the manor. Couples, usually, or more rarely a lone occupant. As long as no one touched his library Aziraphale was happy to share his home. He did try to be a considerate housemate, ghost or not. Being dead was no excuse for poor manners.

He’d been dead, as far as he could tell, for something in the neighbourhood of 200 years. Give or take a decade. His nebulous grasp of time extended to keeping up with what year it actually _was_. Whatever the case, Aziraphale had changed very little in all the years of his afterlife, if one could call it such. It went on rather like his life had, really. Neither had the manor house - it was, after all, an historic Heritage Site and any changes had to go through a truly daunting number of committees. That, combined with the fact that Aziraphale’s will was _very_ specific when it came to the upkeep of the property in general and the library in particular, made for a place that seemed to have stepped sideways out of time.

_(The will was ironclad - anyone who moved into the manor did not, in fact, own it. They rented it from the trust that Aziraphale, with the help of his dear friend Frances, had set up. Partly to ensure the sanctity of his collection, that it wouldn’t be broken up and sold off to those who wouldn’t appreciate his books but in large part to spite his family. Despite being the so-called black sheep he was still part of a wealthy, politically powerful family and he’d had it all done before anyone had noticed, and then it was too late. The shock of realising he was dead still hadn’t overshadowed his absolute glee at the look on Gabriel’s face when he was told he couldn’t have the manor.)_

Not that Aziraphale hadn’t changed at all, of course. The hose had been quite comfortable, but the layers upon layers of lace had always irritated him to no end. He much preferred his current garb - or the appearance of such - which was modeled on bits and pieces of the tenants’ wardrobes that had caught his fancy. He particularly favoured his soft, velvet waistcoat.

He was spending his time today as he often did, reading in the library. The well-stuffed wingback chair that was his preferred perch had arrived sometime in the early 1930s with a lovely young couple, the husband fancied himself something of a - ha! - armchair scholar. It didn’t take long for it to become Aziraphale’s favourite place to indulge in a good, long read and a cup of tea. Or perhaps more accurately, the memory of a cup of tea. He’d discovered that eating when you’re dead is mostly an exercise in focus and imagination. He was several chapters deep into an old favourite when the unmistakable sound of the heavy lock on the front door turning over echoed through the lifeless house.

Aziraphale found himself grinning widely as he stood with a happy little shimmy. The book kindly returned itself to its proper place as he went to meet the commotion made by several persons shuffling around each other in the spacious foyer.

“ - now, there are provisions in the English Heritage regulations for repairs necessary to the upkeep of the manor, and you can of course decorate, though the tenancy agreement requires that all removed furniture and such be stored properly until the end of the agreed period. Any major changes must be made through the Heritage committee.” The voice - clipped but not curt, polite and professional - the realtor was here with a potential tenant!

_(One would think, being dead, that one would become used to being alone. Aziraphale was fine alone but he preferred to have the hustle and bustle of another person around, even if he just watched them from afar.)_

Aziraphale, by nature, moved silently so it was no trouble to enter the foyer unobserved in time to see - ah, yes! Ms. Hodges, in a deep maroon suit and her usual sensible heels, and with her must be the potential tenant. Upon seeing the man Aziraphale immediately knew he wanted to drop the ‘potential’. Tall and slim, what you might call rangy except for the serpentine grace with which he moved. Hair the colour of molten copper fell in loose curls down his back, partially pulled back off his angular _(beautiful)_ face. The dark glasses he still wore perfectly complemented his sleek black jacket, unbuttoned to reveal a deep grey waistcoat and some sort of slinky mesh scarf that Aziraphale couldn’t help but imagine running through his hands. He would have been more than happy to continue his sartorial examination but then that _voice_.

“I understand. I’m not here to change things, I’m here for the manor as it is.” Aziraphale had never understood the term ‘_whiskey_-_soaked_ _voice_’ before now but _good_ _Lord_.

Ms. Hodges smiled in the overly bright way of someone who was about to get something they really, really wanted. “Wonderful! I’ll give you the grand tour?” She didn’t wait for her companion to respond, already heading off toward the formal sitting room.

“I have seen the pictures, Ms. Hodges. The entire manor was photographed, it’s on the website.” Aziraphale sighed, the edge of amusement made the man’s voice so _warm_. Aziraphale _liked_ warm.

“Indeed it has,” Ms. Hodges agreed, an edge of teasing in her voice. “However, it’s one thing to see it in pictures, it’s quite another to see it in person.”  
The stranger smiled. “Well then, after you.” The swagger with which he followed the realtor should not have been humanly possible, hips had _bones_, for the love of God!

Aziraphale didn’t much listen to the tour spiel, though he absolutely took the opportunity to observe _just_ how well the man’s skinny jeans fit him when he bent to examine the very modern ovens that were part of the kitchen renovation two - or was it three? - tenants back.

Later, the tour completed, while afternoon sun layered gold into the burnished red of the man’s hair, the paperwork was signed and Aziraphale felt his non-existent heart beat a little faster. Back in the foyer, paperwork safely tucked into a chic leather folio, Ms. Hodges pulled out a set of keys with the heft to match the centuries old door.

“Welcome home, Mr. Crowley.” she said as she handed over the keys.

Crowley - _Crowley_, _what_ _a_ _wonderfully_ _evocative_ _name!_ \- thanked her, tossing his curls back over his shoulder. It was only as they went to leave that Aziraphale realised that Mr. Crowley hadn’t ever taken off his glasses, and he was suddenly loathe to let the man out of his sight without seeing his eyes. Aziraphale found himself reaching, aching to touch.

“Crowley,” he breathed. He froze, eyes wide, when Crowley stopped. One hand was on the door but he turned back toward the foyer. Despite the dark glasses Aziraphale could tell that he was scanning the open space. After a long moment he shook his head, as if to clear it. He turned away sharply. “You’re losing it, Crowley,” he muttered as he pulled the door shut firmly.

Aziraphale let his hand drop, the thunk of the lock sliding home echoing around him hollowly. His new housemate was _sensitive_.

“Oh, dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set in the same vague 'now' as the TV series, I just really like Crowley with long hair. Imagine the 2019 suit with Golgotha's hair. 
> 
> Thanks for hanging around this long, I'm excited to rejoin such a wonderful fandom!


End file.
